The Road to Glenbogle
by Marcia Landa
Summary: We all know that Molly left Hector early in their marriage to return to London but came back when she discovered she was pregnant with Jamie. What if she and Hector hadn't reunited? What would have happened then?
1. Chapter 1

**The Road to Glenbogle**  
by James Gilbert  
as published by Marcia Landa

Part I

On the Train

If life is a journey then we travel on roads that consist mostly of twisty little paths that turn into each other. For the most part, no matter which path we choose, we will revisit the same junctures over and over again and have a chance to see where another route might take us. However, at other times we come to a crossroad, where the path we choose has a profound impact on the rest of our lives, and maybe for generations to come.

Or so it seems to me now as I sit in an overnight train speeding from London to the Scottish Highlands. I am a world traveler, adventurer, and writer by profession, but I had never made the trip to Scotland before. My mother had made two such round trips, within a short space of time, 37 years ago. The first time she was accompanied by her husband. They were returning from their honeymoon. It would be the first time she would see the house and vast estate that was to be her home for what she thought was the rest of her life.

A mere 3 weeks later she was headed back for London, vowing never to return. Marrying Hector MacDonald, she concluded, had been the biggest mistake she had made in her young life. She was isolated and lonely in her new surroundings. Hector, who seemed so loving when he courted her in London, now seemed fonder of his dogs and his golf game than he did of her. She had gazed into the crystal ball of her mind and concluded that many more years with this man would turn her into a lonely, bitter, old shrew. This vision was not to her liking.

It was raining when my mother left quietly early one morning for the Glenbogle Station for the train that would take her home. It was raining when she arrived in London too, but she felt the joy of a sunny day. For six delicious weeks she reveled in her newly regained freedom. She had studied art, but found a job modeling. She was offered a small part in a film. She picked up where she had left off with her old art school friends and other bohemian types. She probably would have remained one of the smart set and trend setters for some time to come if it weren't for her discovery that she was pregnant with me.

Why her pregnancy prompted her to return to her husband and a life she hated, I haven't been able to determine. It was 1965, and although abortion was still illegal, one could be arranged easily enough. Also, as a married woman, she could have raised me on her own without any serious stigma attached to it.

For whatever reasons, my mother turned her life around once again and boarded the train to Glenbogle. From the Glenbogle station she took a cab to Glenbogle House. She stepped out of the cab to be greeted by one her husband's grounds workers. He told her that Hector was out riding and was expected back soon. He suggested she wait inside, but my mother preferred to walk in the garden.

My mother smiled at the thought of Hector riding, as it was one of the few activities they both enjoyed in the vast wasteland of the countryside that she would once more, try to make home. There hadn't been a horse for her to ride when she first arrived, but Hector had purchased a silver dappled bay with a lovely white face. It was in fact, supposed to be delivered the day she left. She wondered how long she would be able to continue riding in her condition? She went out to the back Garden and headed towards the stables to meet her husband. She expected to see the bay waiting idly in it's stall.

Instead, before she reached the stables, as she had come upon a clump of trees, she saw two riders return. Hector was on his dark brown stallion. Somebody else, a woman, was on the dappled bay. The woman wore a long thick auburn braid down her back, and dismounted her horse gracefully, as she smiled at Hector. Hector was smiling too. When he dismounted he let go of the reins and embraced the woman long and passionately. 

My mother nearly fainted. Her predominant feeling was one of humiliation rather than betrayal. After all, she was the one who had left Hector. She had beaus of her own in London. How could she be so foolish to think that he would be waiting, like Penelope, for her to come back, when she had said she would never return?

She ran back round to the front of the house. The grounds man was still there, and when she saw his sympathetic face, she knew that he knew what she knew, and that he had known all along.

"Would you call me a cab, please" she said with as much dignity as she could muster. "I won't be staying, after all."

"I can drive you to the station, myself," the man offered. "It will be quicker."

"Thank you," she said. She stepped into his battered truck and they drove off. The both were silent for awhile.

"I'm sorry," the man said. "I would have warned him. It might have been different. He still cares for you, I'm certain of that."

"Maybe this is for the best," she said bravely. "Please don't tell Mr. MacDonald I was here. It would be better if we could both just forget."

This was the last time she was in Scotland and one of the few times since that she has been to Britain. She decided to go to Paris to live with her Aunt Elizabeth while she sorted out her life. As it turns out, she made a life for herself there.

I tell you this by way of introducing myself: a man who grew up without a father, who learned of his father's identity only recently on his mother's deathbed, and who is now making a journey with the hopes of meeting that father.

I should say here that I had a full and happy childhood, never lacking for material comforts or adult attention and affection. I never missed what I didn't have. However, now that I know my mother's story and the beginning of mine, I can't help but wonder how things might have been for us if she had never taken that road back to London, or if upon returning to Glenbogle, she had decided to stay with her husband - with me there, to change the balance of things.

One never knows what lies at the end of the road one is on, let alone the road not taken. But I am a traveler and it is my inclination to go down as many roads as I can. Who knows what I will gain or lose by traveling this road? A new family? An article on the Highlands for a travel magazine? Or rejection from someone who didn't know I existed and would rather I didn't? Only time will tell.


	2. Chapter 2

Part II

The Road to the Present

1

I had a pleasant, if unusual childhood, surrounded by a large, if unconventional family. At first it was just Mama, Aunt Elizabeth, and me, living in the penthouse suite above Chez Refuge, with anywhere up to 8 girls living in the bedrooms and shared spaces below. Aunt Elizabeth, the wealthy, philanthropic widow of a French automobile manufacturer, had a few years earlier founded Chez Refuge as a shelter for prostitutes who wanted a respite from or way off of the streets of Paris.

I was in part raised by Aunt Elizabeth and the succession of girls who came and went from the place, as Mama had a demanding career as an actress in France's longest running soap opera,_ Les Bon, Les Mauvais, et les Chic_. Mama was the striking, blonde, actress, known as Monalise Gilbert, who played the Englishwoman Terri Swopes. In the early years, Terri was a _trés mauvais_: beautiful and heartless, a home wrecker and a heart breaker. She was a character whom French audiences loved to hate.

At home, Mama was _trés bonne_. Hadn't she left her home in England shortly before I was born to help Aunt Elizabeth run her charity? Hadn't she found a sister and a brother for me to play with during the long days while she was gone? And didn't she have a lap wide enough for all three of us by placing pillows next to her on the bed or sofa and letting us all pile on?

My siblings were brought to us by two of the girls. I don't remember the Senegalese woman who lived downstairs during her pregnancy, leaving behind her 2 month old daughter when she returned to the streets. I do remember Mama sitting with me in her lap and baby Lisette in mine, as we fed her a bottle.

I have a dim memory of Mishal, the young Algerian teenager had run away from home rather than face her family's wrath when she became pregnant. Aunt Elizabeth had rescued her and when she found her begging on the streets, and she sometimes played with Lisette and me. She delivered to us a baby boy. Mama named him Archaimbaud, but we called him Arché (Arshay). After his birth, Aunt Elizabeth arranged for Mishal to live with a modern Muslim family who would let her live out her childhood and finish her education without the black mark of premature motherhood hanging over her head like a scimitar.

When we were young, Mama never used the word adopted when speaking of how Lisette and Arché came to us, but she did refer fondly and matter-of-factly about the mothers who _grew_ them. I may have been 5 when I first wondered out loud about the mother who grew me. "I grew you," Mama informed me with her tinkling laugh. I wasn't sure whether to feel privileged or cheated for not having a special growing mother like my siblings.

As our family and the demands on the Chez Refuge grew, Aunt Elizabeth took over an adjacent building, built another penthouse suite for herself, and used the remaining floors for offices and day programs. There was a connecting door between the two quarters, always open, so we could run back and forth between the two.

I was known in the family as Jamie, pronounced Zhemi, by the French speakers. Aunt Elizabeth and the girls always spoke French to us. Mama always spoke English. Consequently we grew up fluent in both languages. When I started the day school that all of us were to attend, I soon learned I needed a French name, so I became Jacques away from home.

It was also at school that I learned that I learned about the importance of fathers. None of us at home had one, so mine was not missed. It was my classmate, Henri, who informed me that there was a male part to the family equation, and if I didn't know that I was an imbécile and a batârd. I gave him a shove which sent him running, and I never heard anything more about it. When I asked Mama she said that my father was British gentleman whom she knew in London.

That was enough to satisfy my curiosity for a while. Next I wanted to know if the British gentleman was Lisette and Arché's father too. No, I was told, their fathers were French. In time I came to understand that their paternity had been deduced from Lisette's café au lait skin and wavy black hair, and from Arché's wheat colored baby curls that turned darker each year, until now his hair is darker than mine. When my sibs entered school and classmates occasionally taunted them for not being French, all they had to do was come to me for protection and correction.

"They are as French as you and me," I would shout, my fists balled and ready for action. We were, in fact, all French citizens. "Do you want to come here and tell me I'm not French?" Of course they didn't and I wouldn't have done more than chase them if they had. I would never stoop to fighting with little kids, unless we were home and it was Lisette or Arché who had done something to deserve it.

School came easily to me. I learned to read French and English with equal facility and would probably have had my head in two books at a time if it weren't for Lisette and Arché dragging me out to play. Without them, I would undoubtedly have become even more of a precocious smart aleck than I was. We played tag, and hide and seek, board games, and pirates.

Sometimes we'd even play our fatherless version of house, with Lisette as mother, Arché as baby, and me as cook/security guard (like our faithful Jean-Claude). After Lisette tired of tending the baby, she would preen herself and leave for her acting job. I would fend off unwanted boyfriends and pimps while Arché would peek out, giggling, from behind the sofa. Lisette might be off singing and dancing in a world of her own, or with me on the carpet, which marked the bounds of our home, to yell at our invisible intruders in rude French.

Mama saw that we rode our bicycles in the park and had swimming lessons. While Lisette studied dance, Arché and I played football. Of course it wasn't Mama who usually took us to all these activities, but the buxom Brigitte, or the sad eyed Marie-Rose, or the efficient Claudette who took computer classes and would become Chez Refuge's most successful graduate. Later she would come back to work as Aunt Elizabeth's assistant.

On most weekends and the summers we would have Mama to ourselves. When she wasn't taking us to museums and other cultural attractions, she would let us play on the beach or in the park while she painted or sketched. She would take us to the country or to the Riviera or the Greek islands or the Alps, but never to Britain. I knew she had family there, but her father died before I was born. Her mother visited us yearly until her death four years later, but I don't remember her much. It never occurred to me that there might be others on the island nation, whom we were avoiding or who might be avoiding us.

2

I did come to wonder more about my father. After a while, I understood why the identities of Lisette and Arché's fathers were so vague. But what about my own? Had mama been walking the streets of London at night and come to Paris when she became pregnant with me? I was ashamed to even think such a thought. Never-the-less I blurted out one day when I was 11. "Did you know my father?"

"Of course I knew your father," Mama said looking puzzled, perhaps at the odd wording of my question. "I knew your father very well. He was a good man," she said, her face softening with the remembrance. "We loved each other, but it didn't work out. We were too different. " Then she quickly changed the subject.

I was relieved, but not fully satisfied. Why hadn't it work out? How were they different? Were they from warring families, like Romeo and Juliet? Was he a gentleman robber, like Raffles, who could only lead to trouble? Maybe he was a Soviet spy?

"What's his name?," I popped the question, some years later. It was one of my _rare family appearances _as she humorously referred to my teenage preference to be with my friends. "This isn't a good time to discuss it," she said slowly. "When you are a man, I'll tell you everything." That confirmed it. He _was_ a Soviet spy.

Mama never had any shortage of men friends while we were growing up, although she never seemed to be overly attached to any one. I had no reason to think any of them were lovers or that they weren't. There was Émile, a businessman, who would come for dinner or drinks, ruffle our heads, show us silly magic tricks, and stay after we were put to bed. There was Yves, a fashion photographer, who took her to the theater and clubs, and there was Dominique, a writer, who took the most interest in me because I liked to write. I would show him my childish stories about boys who had great adventures, and later my essay on growing up at Chez Refuge. This he arranged to have published in Le Monde, after helping me with corrections. Thus I began my career as a writer.

Lisette and Arché both had their career choices nurtured at home, as well. When Lisette was 12, Mama's show decided that her character was due for a reformation. After suffering the heartbreak of a stillbirth, Terri was to adopt a homeless orphan girl she would find rummaging through her rubbish bin. Lisette, who when she wasn't entertaining us with her theatrics, was often engaged in histrionics, was offered a chance to try out for the part. She was a natural in front of the cameras and played Désirée for the next six years.   
When she finished secondary school, Lisette went straight to Hollywood, where she now does modeling and commercials and has had some small parts in film and television. You may have seen her picture in People magazine in an article about Madonna and her Jewish mysticism crowd.

Arché followed Jean-Claude around the kitchen so much that he soon became a competent cook himself. Mama dubbed him a _food artiste_. He went to culinary school, became a top chef in Paris, and now runs his own restaurant in New York with his girlfriend, Katrine. If you are ever in the City, as the locals call it, you must go to _Poisson Volant _but be sure to make reservations well in advance.

I was the only one to go to University. Mama wanted me to attend the Sorbonne, but I decided to go to Cambridge instead, where I studied Arabic and Russian. I was already planning to become a travel writer. I naively decided I already knew how to write; I just needed some help in getting around.

I'm not saying I didn't have to study hard, but languages have always come easily to me, and I also had time for athletics. I was star of the swim team, captain of the rowing team, and a member of the football team.

Cambridge is an international community, and I could have remained Jacques or reverted to Jamie. Instead I chose to be known as Jock. I wanted to have a British identity, but Jamie was reserved for family.

When it came time to graduate, I wasn't certain whether Mama would attend. As far as I knew, she had never returned to England since she left pregnant with me except for her mother's funeral. She did come, accompanied by her friend André, an artist and gallery owner I had never met before. Mum linked arms with him in an intimate way when they walked. He  
I returned home a week later, ready to start my career as a man of the world. I had some job leads to follow up and other things to attend, to as well.

"So, Mama," I said our first morning together at breakfast. "Am I a man now?"

"Of course you are" she laughed as she caressed my scratchy unshaven face. "Do you really need to ask?"

"Just checking," I said. "So now you can tell me about the British gentleman, my papa."

"Oh," she said turning pale. Her hand was shaking as she lowered her fork. "What do you want to know?"

"His name might be a good start."

She looked at her plate and then back at me. "You have a right to know," she said slowly. "I would have told you earlier, but the situation is rather more complex than any boy should have to deal with. I'm ashamed to say, I don't know for certain who he was."

I swallowed hard. "You told me he was a British gentleman. Now are you telling me that was a lie?"

"Not exactly a lie. There was a British gentleman whom I did truly love. It may have been he. I like to think it was, but it could have been a few others."

"What few others?" I asked, my voice rising in pitch.

"They were all friends of mine - people I met at parties, or at work. You have to understand. It was the 60s. I was young. I got caught up in the excesses of the time. When I learned I was pregnant, I didn't know what to do, so I decided to come here. You must realise, Jamie, that having you was one of the best things of my life."

I cleared my throat. "So there's really nothing you can tell me with any certainty about my father." I set my jaw firmly and stared at her."

"Oh, Jamie, please don't be cross with me. Maybe I should have tried to find out - demanded blood tests - for your sake. But frankly I didn't want to know. I didn't need financial support from them and I didn't want to complicate my life or theirs by bringing them into it. Was that selfish of me?"

"I don't know," I said. "But what's done is done. I've gotten along this far without a father. Lisette and Arché know that their fathers are French. Is it safe to say my father is British?"

"Oh, yes. Very safe."

"I went back to eating my breakfast and pondered my situation. I no longer had any taste for my omelette, but I sipped my coffee in silence. Mama picked at her food and moved it around her plate. "Oh, Jamie, you do understand don't you? I made some mistakes, but then I had you. I wouldn't have had it any other way. You know I love you."

"Yes, I love you too," I said without feeling. I gulped down the rest of my coffee and stood up to leave. "I have some work to do, Mother. I'll be in my room." I never called her Mother unless I was teasing or angry.

I didn't stay angry for long. How could I? I was happy to be here, after all. We didn't discuss the subject again for another 15 years. During that time I had toured extensively around the world and was beginning to make a name for myself as a writer. I'd be gone for months at a time, but I would always return home to Mama. I was 36 years old and the only one of my friends who didn't have a place of his own was a pleasant enough chap. They came to the ceremony, stayed long enough for hugs, handshakes, photographs, and a short tour of the campus. They left on an early train.

I returned home a week later, ready to start my career as a man of the world. I had some job leads to follow up and other things to attend, to as well.

"So, Mama," I said our first morning together at breakfast. "Am I a man now?"

"Of course you are" she laughed as she caressed my scratchy unshaven face. "Do you really need to ask?"

"Just checking," I said. "So now you can tell me about the British gentleman, my papa."

"Oh," she said turning pale. Her hand was shaking as she lowered her fork. "What do you want to know?"

"His name might be a good start."

She looked at her plate and then back at me. "You have a right to know," she said slowly. "I would have told you earlier, but the situation is rather more complex than any boy should have to deal with. I'm ashamed to say, I don't know for certain who he was."

I swallowed hard. "You told me he was a British gentleman. Now are you telling me that was a lie?"

"Not exactly a lie. There was a British gentleman whom I did truly love. It may have been he. I like to think it was, but it could have been a few others."

"What few others?" I asked, my voice rising in pitch.

"They were all friends of mine - people I met at parties, or at work. You have to understand. It was the 60s. I was young. I got caught up in the excesses of the time. When I learned I was pregnant, I didn't know what to do, so I decided to come here. You must realise, Jamie, that having you was one of the best things of my life."

I cleared my throat. "So there's really nothing you can tell me with any certainty about my father." I set my jaw firmly and stared at her."

"Oh, Jamie, please don't be cross with me. Maybe I should have tried to find out - demanded blood tests - for your sake. But frankly I didn't want to know. I didn't need financial support from them and I didn't want to complicate my life or theirs by bringing them into it. Was that selfish of me?"

"I don't know," I said. "But what's done is done. I've gotten along this far without a father. Lisette and Arché know that their fathers are French. Is it safe to say my father is British?"

"Oh, yes. Very safe."

"I went back to eating my breakfast and pondered my situation. I no longer had any taste for my omelette, but I sipped my coffee in silence. Mama picked at her food and moved it around her plate. "Oh, Jamie, you do understand don't you? I made some mistakes, but then I had you. I wouldn't have had it any other way. You know I love you."

"Yes, I love you too," I said without feeling. I gulped down the rest of my coffee and stood up to leave. "I have some work to do, Mother. I'll be in my room." I never called her Mother unless I was teasing or angry.

I didn't stay angry for long. How could I? I was happy to be here, after all. We didn't discuss the subject again for another 15 years. During that time I had toured extensively around the world and was beginning to make a name for myself as a writer. I'd be gone for months at a time, but I would always return home to Mama. I was 36 years old and the only one of my friends who didn't have a place of his own.

3

But I'm getting ahead of myself. At University I had heard about some recent graduates who had turned their own travel experiences into a small, now growing enterprise: a series of travel guide books which they called _Global Village_. Their series was intended to appeal to a younger, hipper, audience than Fodor's and the rest. It would include more out of the way places and opportunities to experience the countries first hand. I contacted them and discovered I was just the sort of person they were looking for. Over the next two years, they sent me to Switzerland, Italy, Greece, Moscow and Egypt, where I would collect information and write for their guide books.

It was in Egypt that I decided to strike out on my own, and become a freelance writer. I was aiming more for National Geographic than Travel but I would take what I could get. By now I had enough money to finance my own travels, as I had received an inheritance from Aunt Elizabeth who had died a year earlier. Chez Refuge was being run by the ever efficient and compassionate Claudette.

My goal in traveling was to live and work with the ordinary people rather than see the sights. I had been offered a job with an Egyptian owned adventure boat trip down the Nile but couldn't take it until I received a work permit. So when I finished with Global Village, I moved from my hotel to a hostel in Cairo, and made some inquiries into volunteering at an archaeological site. Since it didn't look like either the volunteer work or the permit was happening anytime soon, my time was completely my own.

By day I wandered around the bazaars, and spent time in the kahwas (cafes), where I wrote in my journal, drank strong Egyptian coffee and played backgammon. By night I went to some of the local clubs where I smoked sheesha -the sweet, fragrant Arabian tobaccos inhaled through a hookah - and indulged in my taste for belly dancing

I had been fascinated with belly dancing since I first saw it as a boy of 16 on holiday with my family in Greece. Mama, as always, was eager to expose us to local culture, but I don't think she knew what she was getting us into when she chose this particular venue. As I like to recall, it was patronized mostly by middle aged and older men and their questionable female companions. We were the only family there. The dancers, who wore little more than the gauzy scarves with which they liked to play peek-a-boo, came on to the audience and withdrew in a blatantly sexual way.

Following the example of others, I reached into my wallet to tip one performer who was jiggling her bountiful self in front of us. Whether I really would have stuffed the note in her brassiere or just handed it to her with an sheepish smile, I'll never know, since I was stopped mid action by Mama patting my knee and hissing, "There are some things one does not do in front of one's mother."

The next time I saw belly dancing I was a first year student at Cambridge. A girl who had spent a term in Turkey came back to share the "secret female arts" with other women on campus. If she hadn't made such a big deal about "no boys allowed," I don't think any of us would have taken notice; but as it was, it became a big joke among my friends to fantasise about sneaking in to see the sights.

My friend David and I, emboldened by a little too much beer, and the offer of a bottle of Bordeaux, each, if we actually did it, agreed to accept the challenge. We entered the practice room a half hour before the girls were to arrive. It was a comfortable sitting room in one of the houses. We hid behind some heavy drapes in front of two conveniently placed window seats. We waited with boredom mixed with excitement as we tried to focus on the books we brought along to study. We may have been peeping Toms, but we were still serious students.

The girls eventually dawdled in, wearing leotards, tank tops and shorts, work-out pants and oversized t-shirts, nothing like the flimsy costumes of the Greek ladies. They took off their shoes and socks and lazily wiggled their toes and flexed their feet. Christine, the student-instructor rushed in apologising for being late and plunked down a tape deck. With a stentorian voice she commanded the others to stand up and begin warm ups. For 20 long minutes they diligently exercised each body part and muscle group. I found myself glancing at my text book from time to time. Memorizing Russian verbs was more exciting than this.

Warm ups were followed by practicing specific techniques to music while walking gracefully forward and back. First they did a shoulder shimmy, followed by stomach rolls, and pelvic rocks. Then they tried a combine of all the movements in fluid succession. This might have been a little more entertaining if the students weren't quite so clumsy and giggly over their mistakes. Only Christine could execute the movements with any authority, and Christine had too much of an attitude problem, in my opinion, to be of any real interest.

At the end of class, Christine announced it was time for free style, which I could see from their excitement, was a favorite of the girls. Christine put on a new tape which I remember as having an especially rousing, syncopated beat. It was a spirited, love song, with female ululation - a hard to describe, high pitched, wavering sound from the throat - and the repeated words: layla layla layla - night night night.

The girls faced each other in a circle and swayed and undulated and yipped and twirled, smiling at each other joyously. Now this is what I had come for. My heart skipped a beat as I admired the prettiest and most skillful dancers, and wondered what I desired more: to make love to them or be one of them. I was enchanted.

Free style was over all too soon. Christine turned off the tape and declared it was time for closing circle. There was hush in the room as the girls stepped closer and held hands. It was then that I realized what a terrible cramp I had developed from sitting cross legged for so long. I couldn't bear it any longer and slowly tried to free my legs. This was a mistake. In the silent room, I could be heard.

Instantly all eyes were turned toward me and Christine rushed over and pulled open the drapes. "You flippin' bug-turd," she growled, (or words to that effect.). David, from the other window seat, let out an involuntary guffaw. We were both yanked out from our hiding places, and pummeled with angry fists. We broke away and ran, but not before we were hit with a barrage of shoes. We kept on running, and so did our barefoot pursuers, ululating and yipping all the way.

We finally outran them and laughing and gasping, slipped into a campus pub. "Do you think they recognized us?" David asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Sydney is in my Lit class and Laurel is going with my room mate."

"We're dead," David said.

In fact we survived the experience. We invited the girls to share our wine and most of them came - even Christine. Now here I was in Egypt, having seen more belly dancers than I had movies in the past few months, but I hadn't tired of it yet. None of the dancing I had seen in Egyptian clubs were as overtly sexual as the show in Greece, but quite sensual and more professional than my Cambridge classmates. Now on my own, I found myself drawn to a particular club known as Asdiqa (Friends). It had a largely Egyptian clientele, the sheesha was good, and so was the beer, and most importantly, there was Bashira.

4

Bashira was my favourite belly dancer. Not as flashy or scanty a dresser as the dancers in the hotel clubs, she was as sultry as the best of them. She was the one who most emanated the joy I had witnessed among my Cambridge classmates. She played to her audience, but her audience might as well have been a bride about to be married or a mother with a new baby (the more traditional audience for this type of dancing) rather than a room full of wide-eyed men.

I wanted to meet Bashira, but one doesn't just walk up to an Egyptian woman, even a belly dancer, and expect to form a serious acquaintance. You might just as likely have her brother turn up and give you a drubbing, as have her turn away from you without a remark. So my first evenings in Asdiqa I spent getting to know the staff and the regulars. Eventually I became bold enough to ask Kasim, the owner, about Bashira and let him know I would appreciate an introduction.

He told me that she did not have a husband or a boyfriend and that she was living with her mother in a modest neighborhood in Cairo. Well good, that gave us something in common, as I essentially lived with my mother too.

One night between acts, Bashira was sitting at a table with Kasim. He beckoned to me and I came over with my beer in hand. He and Bashira were each having tea. Kasim serves Egyptian brewed beer, but in keeping with Muslim law, doesn't drink it himself. After introducing us, Kasim stood up to let me take his chair, saying he had some business to tend to.

I greeted Bashira in Arabic but she responded to me in well accented English. It turned out that she lived in America from ages 7-14. Her father had been educated there and later returned to work at an engineering firm. When he died suddenly, her mother moved the family back to Egypt. So we had something else in common - we were both fatherless.

We talked about our families, about the places we had lived, about the differences between East and West. Bashira was both astute and funny in her observations. She had always wanted to visit France, from the time she read Madeline in English, and Le Petit Prince in French class. She was quite intelligent and well read but never went to University. She was supporting her family, including an ill grandmother, while her siblings finished school.

We talked about belly dancing: about her first having learned it in her grandmother's village, where it was performed only for women; about how she later trained with a retired performer who was known by a friend of her uncle. I told her about my experience at Cambridge and she laughed.

I continued to patronise Asdiqa and sit with Bashira between sets. Soon she started coming in early and we would slip out to walk along the nearby Nile before her set began. The Nile after dark was Cairo's lover's lane: the only place that young people from traditional families could be alone. We held hands as walked under the protective gaze of moon. She let me kiss her gently and before long, she was responding enthusiastically. Sometimes we went to a late afternoon film or a dimly lit restaurant, but she was always a little furtive. She didn't want to be seen by anyone who knew her family.

I was enjoying our romance, in spite of it's chasteness, and became less eager to move on to my next job. We had been together for about a month when my working permit arrived and remarkably, the boat job was still open. If I took it, I'd be away for two weeks at a time with only one overnight in Cairo. I wouldn't have a full week off for three months. I talked it over with Bashira. "I don't have to take this job," I said over dinner. "I could stay here and find a teaching position. We could continue to see each other."

"That's nice of you Jamie," Bashira said slowly without looking at me, "But I don't think it's a good idea. I like you very much, but my family would never approve." I was hurt and surprised. With her American background, I didn't think Bashira would feel bound by the old ways. But she couldn't disappoint her family and marry a non-Muslim, and if marriage wasn't what I had in mind, she shouldn't be spending time with me, anyway.

I wasn't ready to propose, but neither was I ready to rule marriage out. What if I converted, I wanted to know; but I had to admit, I was unlikely to agree to that. So I took the job with the adventure trip company and continued to see Bashira on my Cairo nights, but only at Asdiqa. It wasn't the same for either of us and we decided to stop seeing each other.

I worked on the boat for more than half a year and then returned to Paris to celebrate Christmas with my family. By then, Arché and Lisette had gone off into the world to seek their fortunes, but we always managed to return home for Christmas. This time Arché came with Katrine and Lisette with her current beau. Mama was still with André so I was the only one unpartnered. That was the price I would pay for being a _ramblin' man_.

There would be other women in my life, but it seems that if they didn't break my heart, I would break theirs when it was time for me to move on to my next destination. There was one woman in the Faroe Islands whom I asked to join me on my next stop in Singapore, but although she seemed interested in seeing the world, she didn't share my wanderlust. Maybe some day I would settle down, but not until I was 40, at least.

So that sums up my love life. After Christmas I returned to Egypt to explore the upper Nile to its source in Lake Victoria with some people I met on the adventure tour. This would take us 2 months traveling mostly by canoe. Later when I returned to Cairo I learned that Bashira had married a Saudi and was living in Riyadh.

I stayed on in Cairo for a few more weeks to do some more _chaste_ research on the taboo subject of prostitution in Egypt. Claudette had actually encouraged me to pursue this line of investigation and it did prove to be worthwhile in terms of getting a rather controversial article published. I would continue with this sideline in many of the countries I visited and have now completed the first draft of a book on the subject.

From Egypt I moved on to East Germany, where there had been increasing unrest during the waning days of the Soviet Union. I was there to watch the Berlin Wall fall. I was also in Moscow during the collapse of the Soviet Union. Later I went to Hungary to live with the gypsies. I was a freelance war correspondent in Sarajevo, where I paid my dues huddled in a basement with others who had not fled the city, listening to the bombs fall around us and diving for cover as the plaster fell. Later I did similar war work in Kosovo.

I traveled extensively throughout Asia, including Thailand where I traveled with a highly respected troupe of female impersonators and collected a wealth of material on child prostitution. On September 11, 2001, I was in Boston at a international conference on women, poverty, and prostitution, when the World Trade Center in New York was blown up. 

The planes weren't flying so I rented what seemed like the last available car in the city and arrived in New York that night. Arché and Katrine were safe but they had seen nearly the whole disaster from their apartment across the river in Brooklyn. As the days passed and people began to share their stories, it seemed that everyone knew somebody who knew somebody who had suffered a terrible loss. The doorman at Arché and Katrine's building had a son who was one of the firefighters who died in the rescue attempt. I stayed in New York for the next few weeks, taking copious notes on my impressions and discussions with residents, but I was never able to pull them together for an article.

I left a few weeks later when it became clear that the US and Britain were about to go to war in Afghanistan to route out the Taliban. I was working with a photographer and an interpreter, trying to spend time with as many of the parties as possible, including foreign soldiers, government officials, Afghan soldiers, and ordinary people caught in the crossfire. I had dreams of being able to interview Bin Ladin. I also had nightmares of being kidnapped, tortured, and killed.

I received a message from André six months ago to tell me that Mama had fallen and broken her hip. I was home within 5 days. Mama was not so old that this should have been a life threatening injury, but she did have fairly advanced Parkinson's Disease, and that made a big difference.

5

We learned about Mama's illness ten years ago when she was diagnosed. She was beginning to have an unsteady gait and slight tremors. With the diagnosis she learned that she had a progressive disease that would slowly worsen until it killed her. She would continue to lose control over her movements until eventually she would become almost completely rigid. The only saving grace was that there were medications to forestall the progression of the disease. She would be able to lead a fairly active life for a few years or more.

Mama put on a brave face and continued to live is as she always had - just a little more slowly and with more effort. She even continued to work, as Terri Swopes conveniently became ill, as well.

It was five years before Mama left the show. She moved from Chez Refuge to a wheelchair accessible flat with an elevator. Fortunately for all of us, André moved in with her. She said he was her angel and I think he was her children's too. We could all live our far-away lives, coming home for yearly visits, and know she was loved and well cared for.

Parkinson's Disease is a condition where a person's abilities are uneven throughout the day. By now Mama was mostly in a wheelchair, but occasionally she could stand and even walk. Like many people in her situation, she tried to maintain more independence than was actually good for her. André told me that he had wanted to assist her this last time when she tried to walk from the living room to the kitchen, but she bushed him off irritably. Then she fell.

She was still in the hospital when I arrived at her bedside, on morphine, but alert. I could see that she didn't look good and the doctors were advising that she go into a nursing home. André and I talked it over with her. She was willing to go to spare us the bother of looking after her, but we could tell that it wasn't really what she wanted. We decided that between the two of us we could care for her during the day, and that we would hire nurses for the night - so three weeks later she went home and was very grateful for the opportunity. She was never able to get out of bed again without a great deal of assistance, and walking was a thing of the past.

Lisette and Arché both came home during this period, but after a few days when they saw that Mama was stable, they both went back to their lives in America. Lisette had a part in a movie where filming was already underway and Arché had to get back to his restaurant and Katrine, who was now his wife and pregnant.

So André and I took the day shift: four hours a day each, seven days a week, and watched Mama decline. Her once expressive face had become a near blank. She could move her mouth in a paltry imitation of a smile or a frown, but only her eyes shone with their former richness. We had to feed her. We prepared all her favourite foods, but it got so she had more and more trouble swallowing; Eventually she could eat nothing but baby food and liquids. She was losing weight and becoming frailer by the day. Finally, the strain of caring for her became so great that we hired a day nurse, but one of us was still with her for much of the time. Death seemed to be lying in wait for her like a wolf panting outside our door.

The one spark of happiness in our family life came when Arché and Katrine's baby girl was born. They named her Mona, after Mama. They emailed us pictures within hours after the birth and for days afterwards. Mama was so delighted: her greatest wish was to live long enough to see her granddaughter. They promised that they would visit when Mona was six weeks old.

Mama did her best to last the six weeks. Whenever she tired of eating, we'd tell her to have a little more for Mona, and she would do her best. But at four weeks when she was so thin and had lost all ability to eat, we were told that she had no more than a week to live. We had known this day was coming for ten years now, and here it was. I called Arché and Lisette and they both made plans to come right away.

6

Mama held on the best she could. She could speak only in a whisper, and only a few words at a time, but now it seemed she had something important to tell me. She was sitting up, supported by the angled hospital bed, with André and me sitting on either side of her, when she turned to André and said something to him. He nodded back, reached over to her bedside table and pulled a file folder out of the drawer. He placed it in her hands and she painstakingly tried to take hold of it. In the end, he supported her as she handed the folder to me. She looked at me with pleading eyes and said, "I'm sorry, Jamie."

I didn't know what to expect. I opened the folder and read the first document. It was a marriage certificate for Mona Lisa Gilbert and Hector MacDonald, marked London, England and dated May 10, 1965. I was stunned. "You were married to a Hector MacDonald less than a year before I was born. Who is he?" 

"British gentleman," she whispered.

"The British gentleman that might or might not be my father?"

"Is your father," she mouthed.

"Do you know for sure?"

She nodded, and looked at André anxiously. He came round to my side of the bed and I stood to meet him. He took two black date books out of the folder - one for 1965 and the other for 1966. He began flipping through the earlier one. "You know the date your mother was married. Here it is in her appointment book." There it was in girlish, loopy script: Wedding with a heart drawn around it.

"You see, they came to France for their honeymoon, and stayed for three weeks," I saw that there were several entries that confirmed this, along with plane schedules to and from.

André turned the page in the appointment book. "You see, here is when she arrived in Glenbogle, Scotland, her husband's ancestral home. He was laird of a great estate."

Mama grunted to get our attention. "Castle," she said.

"Yes, she wants you to know that he lived in an giant, old stone castle."

I let out a whoosh of air. "That's quite some gentleman."

"You see here that the Midsummer Ball was scheduled for June 21st," he continued. The Ball, which she attended, was held at Glenbogle House. Already things were going poorly with your father. She left for London the next day."

"That's not in the book."

"That's because she left impulsively early that morning before anyone was up. It wasn't planned."

"What about the other men?" I asked. I had to know.

André looked at Mama and so did I. "No others," she said.

"What! You told me there were others. Why would lie to me or are you lying now?"

"No others," she repeated.

"Look here a month later," André interjected. "This is the doctor's appointment which confirmed she was pregnant. And here a few days later is the train time for her return to Glenbogle."

"Yes, she found out she was pregnant with me and went back to her husband."

"Exactly."

"So then what happened?"

"When she arrived at Glenbogle she saw your father with another woman. He didn't see her, so she turned around and went back to the train station."

"And back to London... Where there may or may not have been others?" I was not happy about this and I looked at Mama severely." Tears were running down her cheeks and I bit my lip.

"Look here," André said in a business-like tone. He opened up the book for 1966. "See what it says here?" He pointed to a date in March.

It said _baby due!!! _It was March 1st, two days after I was born.

"This was the due date, the most likely day for you to have been born. Most babies are born within 2 weeks of their due date - 3 weeks at the outside, unless they are premature. Here's your birth certificate," he said, pulling out the next sheet in the file. "3526 grams. You were not premature."

"OK."

"If you count back nine months from your due date you arrive at May 31, the day they arrived at Glenbogle. Three weeks later, the last possible day you could have been conceived is June 21st, the night before she left for London."

"Oh."

"And, she didn't even date other men until after she started work 10 days later. And she was still too fond of your father to become intimate with any of them."

"Mon Dieu," I said. "Then why did she lie to me before?" I looked over at Mama again, but all the anger had drained out of me.

André put a hand on my shoulder and said softly, "Because she didn't want you to meet your father and discover that you were heir to the grand estate. She didn't want you to get caught up in the class-conscious, landed-aristocratic way of life that was so painful to her. She wanted you to have a normal life - a normal future."

I looked at André. I looked at Mama. Then I started to laugh. I sat back down in my chair and took her hand and laughed so hard that tears were running down my cheeks. When I finally calmed down enough to wipe my eyes I said, "Mama, you wanted me to have a normal life so you brought me up at Chez Refuge? You left me in the care of the homeless and recovering hookers instead of a British gentleman because you thought it was more normal? Mama, I love you but you are mad. Mad as a hatter... but I guess I wouldn't have had it any other way. " I cried as I clenched her hand with mine and then used it to wipe my face. André handed me a tissue and wiped Mama's face with another.

We sat in silence for a while, but I think I saw a bit of a smile in Mama's eyes.

7

Arché arrived with his family the next afternoon. He held tiny Mona up to Mama and put Mona's lips against her cheek. I took a picture of them together, so Mona would have it to remember the grandmother she would never know.

Lisette came late that night. She went in to Mama and watched her as she slept. She was still there when Mama woke the next morning.

The next day Mama seemed to be in a confused but dreamy state. Her eyes were open, but she was looking past us. I wasn't sure if she could see us anymore. That night André would not leave her side. With the nurse, there was room for only one more visitor. Lisette, Arché, and I took turns with her, while the other two sat and dozed in the living room, and Katrine and Mona slept in the guest room.

It was sometime in the wee hours when it was my turn to sit with Mama again, that I found her sleeping, mumbling at times and occasionally waking with a start, always to fall right back to sleep again. I didn't mean to but I dozed off in my chair. So did André, I think. When I came to, I was aware of the nurse leaning over Mama. She turned to me and said, "I'm sorry. She's gone. She went peacefully."

I was in such a fog with exhaustion and shock, being prepared, and yet unprepared, for this moment, that I stared at Mama with groggy eyes, assured myself that she was really just asleep, and went out to tell Arché and Lisette it was all over. "We can go to bed now," I said. "She doesn't need anything more from us." We hugged and comforted each other for some time before we did retire for what remained of the night.

We kept busy over the next few days, arranging the funeral, accepting condolences from friends, colleagues and admirers, sorting through Mama's things, hearing the lawyer read her will, and learning that she had left her flat to André, and a considerable amount to charities, but that there was still a considerable amount to be divided equally among the three of us. André urged us to take anything we wanted from the flat.

Lisette took Mama's jewelry, which she shared with Katrine. Arché took the brightly coloured family picture that he had painted as a boy, and Mama had framed and hung in the kitchen. It seems he was the only one to take after her artistically. I took all the documents of my case and a cuckoo clock I had given her long ago as a gift. I think I always admired it more than she did. We split the photos among us.

In a week Arché and his family were gone. Lisette went a few days later. I stayed with André to sort out the finances and because I had nowhere else to go for the moment. I spent much of my free time writing in my now electronic journal- about Mama, our family, and the deathbed confession. Much of what I wrote is now included in this memoir. André came in to my room one time while I was busy at my laptop. "There are a few more things she didn't show you that day," he said opening another file folder.

I raised my eyebrows and waited to see what else was to fall, but there were no more major revelations. There were the divorce papers, dated May 9, 1966, one day short of their first anniversary. There were two letters that she wrote to Hector but never mailed. They provided the details that I used in the beginning of this story.

I decided to Google my father's name on the internet and struck gold. Hector MacDonald was still laird of Glenbogle but he had left the running of it to his only son Paul. It seems that the modern world had finally caught up with the fairytale lives of the Scottish nobility and the MacDonalds had turned their castle into a bed and breakfast and their land into a nature preserve open to the public. They even had their own website with pictures of the castle and the loch and the family with lairds going back to my great great grandfather.

I decided I would call Glenbogle House and make a reservation to spend a few nights, hopefully meet my father, and decide whether I was going to reveal our family ties. I called and made a two night reservation for a few weeks later. In the meantime I had friends to see, a wedding to attend, and a board meeting for Chez Refuge, where I would help chose Mama's replacement. 

That brings the story up to the present. It is now morning and I am having breakfast on the train, which is due to arrive at Glenbogle station in 17 minutes. At this point I know what road I am on, but I have no idea where it will take me.


	3. Chapter 3

Part III

Glenbogle  
1

Yesterday's future is now the past. I stepped onto the platform at Glenbogle Station with nothing but a duffle bag and butterflies in my stomach. I took a deep breath and reassured myself that it was really no different from all the other times I arrived at a new destination. But it was.

I looked around for the person who was supposed to meet me. Wouldn't you know it - here I was in Scotland and a guy in a kilt and a goofy smile was waving wildly at me. I walked over and he scurried forward to greet me. He took my bag and told me his name was Duncan. I thought of telling him to watch out for Macbeth, but before I could open my mouth, he asked me if I had ever been to the Highlands before, and then proceeded to tell me so much about the area and the estate and how much I was going to like it, that I could have turned around right then and there and said I had done it all. 

We drove over a wooden bridge and soon turned onto the estate and the road opened up into a vast expanse of well manicured lawn. The castle was even more imposing than it looked on the webpage, but when I got up close, I could see it was a little worse for wear. 

The scenery, however, was stunning. The loch came right up to the garden, and beyond the gardens were magnificent forests, and all around the horizon were mountains, some of them snow capped, even in summer. Duncan took my bag and I followed him inside to a large hall lined with stag heads, portraits of stern faced men and women from long ago, and a grandfather clock. I felt like I had just walked into the setting for an Agatha Christie murder mystery.

Duncan said, "Excuse me," and shouted "Pau-aul!" at a decibel level usually reserved for bagpipes. Paul MacDonald entered in a matter of seconds and greeted me with an outstretched hand. He was a tall man with dark brown hair and blue eyes like me. "Welcome to Glenbogle, Mr. Gilbert," he said in the posh, accented voice of someone who was educated in England's finest schools.

"I know where I've seen you before," I blurted out. You rowed for Oxford when I rowed for Cambridge, didn't you?"

"Yes," he said visibly searching his memory banks. "Jock Gilbert. You were the captain that year we thrashed you at the meet."

"Yes, and you were the captain that year we thrashed you."

"Small world," he chuckled. "It's good to meet you again, Jock."

"Likewise," I said. "But call me Jamie. That's what I go by with family... and friends," I added.

"My pleasure, Jamie. Duncan will show you to your room and when you are ready I can show you around. We can brag about our former youthful prowess."

Paul showed me around the estate and we did brag some. I told him about what I had been doing since university and he told me how he had been an army officer until five years ago when his father had reluctantly agreed to retire. It seems that we were in Kosovo at the same time.

"I hope you weren't one of the ones shooting at me," I said good naturedly.

"No, no," he assured me. "We were just trying to break up the fight."

He showed me the loch, and apologized that they only had one old dingy. "If I knew it was you coming, I'd have begged, borrowed or stolen another so we could race." We walked over to the Scottish Pine plantation where a worker was spraying the saplings. "This is Golly MacKenzie, our head ghillie," Paul said. Golly was a rough shaven man with short white hair and the look of having been hewn out of one of the great boulders that cropped up on the estate. He grunted in greeting as Paul added. "Golly's family goes way back with the MacDonalds. He was born here."

"Your mother's fishing again in their usual spot," Golly said to Paul.

"Thanks Golly," he replied. "Thanks for keeping an eye on her." He turned to me and said, "I'll show you the gardens."

The gardens were beautifully landscaped, with a non-working fountain, chipped urns with flowers spilling out of them, and something Paul proudly referred to as the Glenbogle Rose. We were about to reenter the house when we ran into a young woman whom Paul introduced as his wife, Lexie. She had bright blue eyes and long brown hair and she spoke with a Scottish accent - one I would have thought was working class. Paul must have broken down barriers to step outside his elite social circle to find a wife, I thought. I liked him for it.

"I'm glad you found us, Lex," Paul said. "We have time for you to give Jamie the house tour before lunch." Mother usually does the house tours, but she seems to be out catching tonight's dinner. We'll see her at lunch."

"How about your father, " I summoned up the nerve to ask. "Will we see him?"

Paul and Lexie's faces fell. "I'm afraid he's not with us anymore. He died six weeks ago," Paul said.

This was too much - both my parents dying within a few weeks of each other and my coming so far to meet this man. It was not fair. "But your website indicated he was still alive," I blurted out, and immediately realized how stupid I sounded. "I'm sorry," I said. "I just lost my own mother. I don't know why I said that."

Paul looked at me strangely and mumbled something about "having to update the website", but Lexie placed her hand on my forearm and said, "I'm sorry about your mum, Jamie."

Paul all of a sudden had business to attend to and left me with Lexie to take the tour. Lexie told me about the history of the house as she led me through the various rooms: the parlour, the morning room, the dining room, the library and the billiard room. All it lacked was a conservatory to make it just like the mansion in board game Clue. 

She pointed out the shields and swords that lined the walls and told me which battles they had been used in. She identified the sitters of the portraits I noted earlier, but I wasn't paying much attention. - my mind was on other things. I did notice that although the Victorian paintings weren't really too my taste and everything looked far more formal than comfortable, the place did have a fairy tale sort of charm. I still couldn't imagine my mother wanting to live here, though.

The last room we came to was the laird's room. "This is where Hector used to come when he wanted to smoke a cigar or share a whisky with a friend or just get away from the hubbub of family life, which was often," she laughed. "Paul doesn't use it much."

"Hm," I said, "I like those two watercolours on the wall."

"Yeah, they're nice." she observed. "I don't know who did them."

I went over to take a closer look. One was of Glenbogle House as viewed from the front drive; the other of the loch, with the mountains in the background. They were made with quick, broad brush strokes which minimized detail, but which never-the-less captured the spirit of the place beautifully. I'm not much of an art connoisseur but I've seen that style before. I checked for the signature, and sure enough, it was MLG, for Mona Lisa Gilbert. Here after all these years, they were a testament to my mother's three week tenure.

2

When we returned to the hall, there was some activity going on. A woman who could only be Paul's mother and Paul were standing together and directing Duncan as he was hanging a large portrait over the staircase landing. It was a formal portrait of Hector MacDonald -my father, as I kept having to tell myself.

Paul introduced me to his mother, who in her overalls and Wellies, did indeed look like she had been fishing. When I addressed her as Mrs. MacDonald, she laughed and told me to call her Meghan. "Everybody else does," she said. "We're pretty informal around here." Meghan still wore the long braid of her youth but it was mostly gray now. She spoke in what I recognized as a regional English accent. From what I could piece together, she and Hector used to fish together, whereas Mama was either excluded from or not interested in this activity.

"We had that portrait done three years ago," Meghan said sadly. "Just before my husband became ill. But he wouldn't let us hang it. He said portraits were for dead people and he wasn't dead yet."

"Hey, what do you want me to do with this," Duncan hollered, still holding the portrait against the wall and waiting for the go ahead to start nailing the bracket."

"Excuse us," Paul said.

I watched the three of them as they negotiated the exact placement of the picture and I wondered what the portrait might tell me about my father. It was the same man whose picture I had seen on the website, with full head of white hair and pale blue eyes; but whereas the other had a hint of a smile, this one had the somber look of self importance that was typical of the other portraits. If my mother had painted that picture, It would not have looked so ponderous.

He was dressed in some kind of ceremonial garb, with a kilt, a red jacket with gold trim, a military cross, and a funny kind tasseled cap. He was holding a sword. I looked for some kind of family resemblance, but it was impossible to see myself in the face of a 70 year old man. Maybe there was something around the eyes.

The picture hung, we all stood back to admire it. "Did your father often dress like that?" I asked Paul.

"No-o," he said. "Only in Remembrance Day parades and special clan ceremonies. I'm going to have to dress up like that in a week during my own investiture."

"Really, what is that?" 

"It's a ceremony where I receive the formal trappings of my office. Although I've technically been laird now for 5 years, Father refused to hand over me the symbolic reigns or the title. It's a little foolish, really, but the whole MacDonald clan will be there, and anyone else who is willing to pay the five quid admission fee. I'm afraid we'll do anything to fill the coffers."

"Is this ceremony really worth the price of admission?"

"I should say so. It's a two day event with Highland games and bagpiping and kiddy rides. A select group of vendors will be there to sell their wares. It will be quite a spectacle."

"Sounds fun," I said. "Maybe I will come."

"Would you be staying that long?"

"I don't know. It depends on some things."

3

Meghan, who had left us to dress for lunch, now returned wearing trousers and a colorful jacket. We walked into the dining room. The table was set for four, with one place at the head of the table, and two and one on either side.

"Who did this?" Paul asked quietly.

"I did," Meghan said. "The king is dead, Paul. It's time you took his place."

"I thought I should wait until the investiture," Paul said. He looked to Lexie for support.

"Go ahead, Paul," she said. "He would want it that way."

"No he wouldn't," Paul said as he sat down in the laird's seat and tried to look the part.

An informally dressed woman came out of the kitchen with a soup tureen and proceeded to ladle out tomato soup for each of us.

"Thank you, Irene," Meghan said.

"Are you here on holiday," Lexie asked turning to me.

"More or less," I said. "But I am always looking for ways to mix work with pleasure. I'm kind of travel writer..."

Three faces perked up.

"Not the kind you're thinking. I don't rate hotels and tell people where to get the best bargains. I go to places tourists don't usually go and find an unusual angle to write about."

"Well, we don't get too many tourists here," Paul muttered.

"But that's going to change," Lexie encouraged him. "People will flock here when the wolves arrive."

"Yeah," he said, smiling bravely. "We're going to have a caged display of the same species of wolf that used to inhabit the area before they became extinct."

"They are coming in two days, in time for the investiture," Lexie said.

"Paul went ahead and arranged this without Hector's approval," Meghan explained. "Hector couldn't stand doing anything that wasn't done in the old days, but the trouble was, the old days are gone."

"If it were up to Father, we'd put a moat around the whole place to keep out the 21st century," Paul said. "He didn't quite grasp the idea that our bankers would still find their way in."

"That's just the kind of angle I'm talking about," I said. "If I were to write about Glenbogle, it would be about the changing nature of the aristocracy: the pull to do things the old way and the need to adapt to the times. I could use your family as an example, if you wouldn't mind."

"I don't see why not," Paul said. He looked at the women on either side of him.

"It's all right with me," Meghan said. 

"There's no such thing as bad publicity," Lexie said.

"Splendid," I said. "If I could start by interviewing you, Paul?"

"Certainly. I have some business to take care of this afternoon, but I'll be free by tea time."

"And meanwhile I can show you some of the old family photographs, if you like," offered Meghan.

"I would like that very much," I said.

Irene came out to serve the next course: a chicken salad with plenty of crunchy vegetables and walnuts and a loaf of home made bread.

"Ah, rabbit food," Paul said with jesting disdain.

"Just because you're sitting in his chair doesn't mean you have to adopt his food preferences or his bad manners," Irene teased.

"Father was rather a red meat, man," Paul explained.

"They come from our garden," Meghan added.

"How did he die?" I asked.

"Liver cancer," Paul said sadly.

"From too much drink," Lexie added.

"He did love his whisky, " Meghan said. "But he had no regrets. When he became sick he said he'd rather have enjoyed life to it's fullest and take the consequences when they came."

"It was an awful way to go," Paul said. "but he faced it like an old soldier."

"He faced it like a cranky child," Meghan corrected.

"That too," Paul said.

"When life became unbearable, he refused any more treatment," Lexie said. "All he wanted was to be with his family and let nature take its course." The others nodded in agreement. I concluded that my father was a complicated man.

"My mother made a similar decision," I said.

The morbid conversation was interrupted by Irene coming to clear our plates. Moments later she appeared with a bowl of fruit salad which she served to each of us.

"Irene, I think you are endeavoring to keep us alive forever with all this healthy food," Paul joked.

"Just trying to keep my job," she retorted.

"Bring enough of your friends to stay here and I'll double your pay," he said."

4

After lunch Meghan showed me pictures of my family. The photo albums went back to the 1800s to my great great grandfather. It appeared that most of the MacDonald men had been in the military. My great Grandfather had died in the Boor War, and his son, fought in World War I. The family seems to have missed World War II, but my father was in the thick of the Suez War. There was a picture of him in his uniform and now I could see the family resemblance. I did look a bit like my father.

"Is that your wedding picture?" I asked. There was only one picture taken by a home camera. Meghan wore a simple white gown and held a bouquet of flowers and Hector was in a suit, but there was something not quite right about the picture. I would have expected there to be more, and for them to have been professionally done.

This single wedding picture was followed by photos of Paul, just born. The date was April 12, 1966 - about six weeks after my birth. It didn't occur to me until after the last album was shut and we were proceeding to the parlour for tea, that I was born while my parents were still married, so Hector and Meghan's wedding couldn't have occurred until after Paul was born. The pictures must have been placed out of order, or ... what. I didn't know how to explain it.

Later, when I had a chance to interview Paul alone, we first talked about his father's family. Paul hadn't known his grandparents but he had heard stories about them - about his grandfather's aloofness and his grandmother's weak heart, and how his father and his brother and sisters were virtually raised by a nanny. His grandmother had also come from a grand Scottish family.

Next we came to his mother's family. It seems that Meghan was born and raised in Yorkshire where her father was a school teacher. However, her mother was the daughter of a Scot who managed a horse farm. Meghan was visiting her grandparents when she met Hector.

"So, your mother wasn't from a noble family, then" I said.

"Not at all," Paul chuckled.

"Wasn't that unusual at the time, in 1960... what was it?"

"Erm, 1965, " Paul said. "Well, yes, I suppose it was unusual, but not unheard of . My mother is a intelligent woman. She quickly learned which fork to use at a dinner party and she already knew how to ride. She was willing to pitch in at charity events, and that was pretty much all that was expected of a laird's wife in those days."

"So, I take it, this was a first marriage for them both?" I asked casually, not even looking up from my notepad.

"No, actually. My father was very briefly married to someone else. She left him after 3 weeks. She was totally unsuited to this way of life, apparently, although she came from what you'd call a good family," he said using finger quotes.

"And what was her name?"

"I don't even know," Paul said. "Look, do you have to put that in? I shouldn't even have mentioned it. My parents don't like to talk about it. I only know because my Uncle Donald blurted it out one time when I was 8. My father called her "that harpy woman".

"Oh, come on. She couldn't have been that bad if he actually married her," I said trying to make light of it.

"He said that she was very beautiful but that she turned on him as soon as she found out he didn't have much money. He also seemed to think he had something going on with Donald on the side."

"That's not true," I said rising from my chair. "She loved him when they married but she was terribly lonely when she came here. There was no one to talk to for miles around. Your father seemed to care more for his fishing and his dogs than he did her."

"What do you know about this?" Paul demanded, quite understandably.

I knew I had blown it, but there was no going back now. "Because she was my mother," I said looking him in the eye "and he was my father."

Paul turned pale and swallowed hard. "You have some nerve coming in here under the pretext of writing an article and making a statement like that," Paul said, now turning red and baring his teeth like he was about to pounce. "What proof do you have?

"I have copies of the documents in my room. A marriage certificate, the divorce papers. And Hector couldn't have married your mother in 1965 because that's when he married my mother. I was born nine months later. You were born more than a month after me. The divorce was not finalized until the following May."

"Are you saying I'm a bastard?"

"No. I'm sure they married as soon as they could. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."

"What did you come here for anyway?"

"I came hoping to meet my father. From what I was told, he didn't know anything about me. I lived my whole life thinking my mother didn't know my father's identity, and then suddenly, on her deathbed, she told me they were married and that she loved him - she just couldn't stand living with him."

"What do you want from us?"

"Look, Paul, I just came here looking for the father I never knew I had. I often wondered who he was and I imagined a lot of things, but I never expected him to be laird of Glenbogle." I paused for a moment trying to gather my thoughts, but I didn't know what else to say. "I know this must come as a shock to you, but can you try to understand it from my point of view?

"You are telling me that you are my father's first born legitimate son, and you expect me to understand your point of view? I'm telling you that you better not repeat that statement to anyone, and I mean **anyone**, or you will see me in court." He pointed his finger threateningly at me. That got my hackles up.

"I think I'm entitled to be acknowledged as my father's son," I said. "And don't you go threatening lawyers to me, because if it comes to that, I can out-lawyer you any day.

In retrospect I have to admit, I wasn't at my best at that moment. Neither was Paul. He gave me 10 minutes to leave the house. He was so angry that I realized it was going to come to blows if I didn't comply. I went to my room and started to pack. I was walking down the grand staircase in 9.5 minutes.

Paul and Meghan were waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. Lexie was there too, watching from a distance.

"We'd like to see those documents," Paul demanded. I produced them from my bag without saying a word. He took them examined them with his mother.

"Mona Lisa," Meghan said icily. "My husband told me her name was Molly."

"She was called Molly," I said, taking the documents back. "Her Christian name was Mona Lisa."

"That marriage was a mistake," she said shrilly, "You were a mistake. You shouldn't be here."

5

Even Paul, who had been standing with his arms folded and his jaw thrust out, was taken aback. "Mother!" he said. But she had already turned around to leave, tears welling in her eyes. Lexie came over to comfort her and ushered her out. She gave me a dirty look.

"She's right, you know," Paul said. "You shouldn't be here - at Glenbogle, that is."

"I'm Hector MacDonald's son and I have as much right to be here as you do.".

"I want you to leave now."

"I will, but I shall return." I don't know what I meant by that, but I had to salvage my pride.

I turned around with as much dignity as I could muster, but I was red with humiliation. I walked out the door to the grassy expanse of lawn, the loch and the distant mountains and the pine forests. I turned around to take one last look at the castle and was thankful I wasn't raised there. Look what this life does to people! I was not expecting to be welcomed with open arms but neither was I expecting such hostility.

I walked along the drive to the front gate. Just outside, Golly was parked in the Land Rover. "You want a lift?"

"Yeah," I got in beside him.

"Where to?"

"I don't know. How about some place where I can spend the night?"

"The Ghillie's Rest has a few rooms," Golly said. We drove on in silence.

"You knew Hector's first wife, Molly, didn't you?" I finally asked.

"Aye,"

"What did you think of her?"

"She was nice enough for a city girl, but she was never meant to be a laird's wife."

"You saw her when she returned to Glenbogle," I said. "You knew she loved him, didn't you?"

"Aye. I didn't know she was pregnant though."

"Did you tell my father that she came back?"

"Naw, she asked me not to. I thought it was for the best."

"Yeah," I agreed.

"Was she happy, your mother?"

"Yes, I believe she was. Was my father?"

"That's a hard one to answer in a single word," Golly said. "Your mother hurt him very badly when she left. But in some ways, it made him treasure Meghan more when he found her. I don't think he would have married outside his class before that."

"Interesting," I remarked.

"But even so, I don't think he really knew how to express himself to a woman or to his children. He was a good man, but not an entirely a happy one."

When we reached the our destination and I got out, Golly rolled down his window to say one more thing: "Your mother must have had her reasons for not telling you about your father sooner. You might think about respecting those reasons and not ruining these good people's lives for your personal gain."

"Hector MacDonald was my father," I said bitterly. "I have a right to my family heritage," I turned and he drove off. The screech of the tires on gravel had the last word.

6

I checked in to the Ghillie's Rest and was given a key and instructions from the bartender. I went up a flight of stairs and found myself in the attic. My room was small with sloping walls, but a dormer window let in the late afternoon sunshine. I sat down on the bed and reviewed the days events.

I cursed myself for not handling the situation more diplomatically but the more I thought about it, the more I decided that the MacDonalds of Glenbogle had severely overreacted. Well, if my father was anything like the rest of the family, I was better off without him.

Still, he was my father. I'd be damned if I'd let his family send me away without so much as a photograph, if not a civil word. I felt angry, cheated, and sorry for myself. I went downstairs to buy a meal and a drink.

I found a small table in the corner, and uncharacteristically intended to keep to myself. Yet when I saw a flyer on the wall announcing the MacDonald Clan Highland Games and the Inauguration of the new Laird next week at the Glenbogle Estate, I asked my waitress about it. "Do you think many people will being going?"

"Are you kidding?" she responded. "The whole village will be there. The place will be packed." I surmised that the nobility still had celebrity status here, unlike in France where liberté, égalité, fraternité is more our line and we are too snobbish to admit an interest in anyone whose blood runs blue.

I lay awake for much of that night, gazing at the light cast over the wall from the occasional passing car. What to do now? I could go home - wherever that was. My home was André's now, and although I would visit him whenever I was in Paris, I couldn't expect to live with him for weeks or months at a time.

I could mosey around Scotland, rent a cottage somewhere, and finish this account of the search for my roots, with it's bitter ending. I would have to change the names of course. I might even come back to Glenbogle in a week to attend my half brother's inaugural. It was open to the public; it would be crowded; they wouldn't even know I was there. That was my plan when I finally drifted off to sleep.

The next day I took the bus to Inverness, rented a car, and played the tourist for a week. But before I left, I had the foresight to book a room at the Ghillie's Rest for the time I would be back, as I suspected it would be crowded.

Tootling around the Highlands, my thoughts were never far from Glenbogle. Would I really be able to gain entry without being noticed? Should I come in disguise? I rejected the idea of a wig and fake mustache but I thought it might be prudent to let my beard grow out and wear a hat and sunglasses.

A week later I was back at my old room at the Ghillie's Rest and I slept well this time. I woke up the next morning, had breakfast, and soon made my way over to the Estate. The events were scheduled to start at 10:00 and I could hear the bagpipes playing as soon as I drove through the gates. There was already a line of cars ahead of me, stopping to pay the admission or being ushered on through. The MacDonald Clan got in for free, I supposed.

When it was my turn to pay, I rolled down the window and passed through the notes to a young man I didn't recognize. He pointed me in the direction of the field that was being used as a car park. I got out of my car and walked right past him, tossing my keys a few times before I put them in my pocket. I followed the crowd that was beginning to develop stopped to watch some children performing Scottish Country Dances when I heard someone address me.

"So, you're back," said Golly looking displeased. "I was hoping you had a better sense of honour than to disrupt this occasion."

"Good morning, Mr. Gilbert," Duncan said in a deep voice. He was approaching on my right. He made an attempt at looking fierce, but it just didn't work for the little man.

"What is this?" I said. "The showdown at the OK Corral?"

"That's up to you," Golly said.

"Why don't you tell us what you're playing at." Duncan said with a swagger.

"I'm not playing at anything," I enunciated. "I am here at a public event to learn about the traditions of my father's family." I held up my hands, palms out. "See, I'm not armed. I come in peace."

"You're not armed," said Golly. "Not even with court papers?"

"What are you talking about?" I said. I was truly confused. I thought one of us must be mad.

"Hold on," Golly said. He pulled out a walkie-talkie hooked on his belt. "Paul, he's here... There was a crackle at the other end. "I don't know. Do you want to see him?" More crackle. "Paul would like to see to you," he said.

"He would, would he?" I didn't want to appear to be strong-armed by these two country bumpkins and thrown at the feet of the mighty laird.

Golly must have sensed my meaning as he said. "Please, he'd like to talk to you."

"All right," I said, standing erect and puffing out my own chest. "I'll talk to him."

7

Golly and Duncan escorted me through the gathering crowd, through the door to Glenbogle House and into the laird's room. Paul was sitting there, not puffed or erect, but rather slumped. He stood up at our approach, thanked Golly and Duncan and shut the door after them. He offered me a seat and we both sat down.

"What do you want?" There was almost a hint of pleading in his voice.

"I don't want anything," I said. "I couldn't meet my father. I just wanted to witness some things that were important to him when he was alive." I had already pulled off the cap and sunglasses but I was feeling very foolish - like Cinderella when she was told she couldn't attend the ball.

"That's all? That's really all?"

"What do think? I'm not planning to introduce myself to the entire clan, if that's what you're worried about. I'll respect your desire for discretion. I won't ruin your special day."

"Thank you," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. But I was steamed up.

"I'll leave, if I'm so much of a bother to you. I won't cast a shadow over my father's house like Sleeping Beauty's bad fairy." I got up to leave. "I can see myself out, unless you think I need an escort."

"No wait," Paul said.

I sat back down.

"So you're not talking about any legal maneuvers here, are you?"

"No, for what? Can one get a court order in Scotland to make one's family members behave with decency towards one another?"

"No, of course not. It's just that we were worried that you might expect some sort of inheritance from Father."

"No, that never occurred to me. I have a rather substantial inheritance from my mother. I don't need anything from him."

"You see, we thought that as his first born son, you might think... oh what am I saying. Of course you wouldn't think. There's absolutely no basis for you to think..."

"Oh, I get it, " I interrupted. "If my parents hadn't divorced, I would be the one to inherit this estate. But they did, and he must have given it to you in his will so..."

"He deeded it to me before he died to avoid death duties. But we were afraid that if you got it into your head that you were entitled, you could force a long and costly court battle that we could ill afford. Our lawyers thought you wouldn't have a case, but if you thought otherwise, well we wouldn't know until a judge had ruled..."

"I see," I said. "I'm not a lawyer but I don't think I'd have a case, either." Besides, with all due respect to your estate, I really wouldn't want it. I'm not the land-owning kind. I don't even like to stay in one country for very long."

"You don't know how relieved I am to hear you say that." Paul heaved a sigh that gave me some indication of how very relieved he was. "I'm truly sorry for having misjudged you. But what did you mean when you said you were entitled to your rights as Father's son?"

"Did I say that? I suppose I meant I wanted to be acknowledged for who I am. I didn't want to have slink out of here like a thief in the night."

"Well," Paul said standing up and extending a hand toward me. "You can stay here as long as you like, brother. We'll find a place for you on our family tree if you will still have us."

"So does that mean I may stay to watch the festivities today, if I keep a discreet distance?"

"I'd be honoured if you stayed, and you must sit with the rest of the family. Come, let me introduce you to my sisters and my uncle. Mother and Lexie will be happy to hear that you're not planning to evict us."

So I was introduced to Paul's sisters, Cath and Zannah, and to their husbands and children. Lord Killwillie, a family friend and advisor, was there too. Uncle Donald looked a lot like Father, as I was beginning to learn to refer to Hector. "Welcome dear boy," he greeted me. "Oh that's quite a handshake," he said, flapping his hand in feigned pain. "I'm glad I don't have to challenge you to a duel."

Meghan and Lexie were so apologetic that they had been rude to me that they were falling over each other trying to see that I had everything I wanted - tea? whiskey? a scone? It seems like it was feast or famine with these MacDonalds. Paul reminded them that this wasn't a tea party and that they were all expected outside to participate in the events. Donald grabbed me by the arm and said, "Come with me, nephew. You can help me judge the Little Miss Glenbogle contest."

In the course of the day, Paul introduced me to a number of clan members and villagers as Father's French son from his first marriage, here for a visit. I didn't begrudge him the emphasis he put on the words French and visit that suggested that I was not about to become a permanent fixture on the Glenbogle scene. The news was generally greeted with raised eyebrows but congeniality.

Golly and Duncan started treating me like we were old pals. Golly offered to take me fishing and tell me stories about my father that even Paul didn't know. Duncan shared his own private Miss Glenbogle contest with me, in which he rated the female passers-by with much winking and elbow jabbing at my expense.

Paul talked me into entering the toss the caber contest. We both lost to a younger and broader man, but Paul was happy that he outdistanced me. All in all it was a lot of fun.

8

That evening the Clan dinner was held under a marquee. My new family squeezed me into the head table and I had my first experience with howtowdie, haggis, tatties and neeps, and lemon curd tarts. Donald grilled me about my entire life including my family, my schooling, my career, and even my love life. He thought Chez Refuge sounded like a delightful place to grow up. He told me he found my mother to be pretty and spunky, and he never could see what she saw in Hector. Luckily, everyone else was caught up in their own conversations and didn't seem to hear this last remark.

Later, when I was sharing a late night drink with Paul, Donald, Kilwillie and Golly, who seemed to be as much a part of the family as any MacDonald, I learned about Father's experiences at Oxford, where he studied Latin and Greek; and in the army, where he fought in the Suez War and won a medal for bravery.

"He was good at languages and that's what ended up saving his life," Golly explained. He had an Arabic phrase book which he studied on the way over. It didn't help him much when he landed on the beach and had to advance towards machine gun fire. But later he was leading his unit into a deserted village and went to check out a seemingly empty house. He went upstairs into a room and was coshed on the head from behind with a rifle butt. He fell to the ground and when he looked up, there was an enemy soldier aiming a rifle at him. He had dropped his own rifle and was totally helpless."

"The way he told it," Paul interrupted, "the Egyptian looked almost as frightened as he did." He aimed the gun and actually said he was sorry.

"Anaa muta' assif." I said.

"What?"

"Anaa muta' assif. It's _I am sorry _in Arabic.

"Right. So Father, being raised to speak when spoken to, said, _That's all right. I understand_."

"Haadhaa hasan. Anaa afham." I said.

"Right. Now you might think that Father was extraordinarily brave or sympathetic, but the way he told it, he was just saying the first thing that popped out of his head from his phrase book."

"It's a good thing he didn't say, How much does this cost? or Which way to the toilet?" chuckled Donald.

Killwillie picked up the thread now. "So Hector, expecting the worst, turned his face to the floor and shut his eyes. He heard some odd sounds and a thump to the ground below, but no gunshot. He got up, looked out the window, and saw the Arab running away with both their guns strapped over his shoulders. Seems the chap couldn't face shooting an unarmed man in the back with whom he had just had a polite conversation."

"He was a lucky man," I said.

"Wait, the story isn't over," continued Paul. "As he was still looking out the window, he saw two of his men coming towards the guy with rifles raised. The man saw them too, and he dropped the rifles and put his hands in the air. Father yelled out the window "Don't shoot". They kept their rifles raised, but they didn't shoot. He jumped out the window and ran to the scene.

He yelled in English, "This man saved my life." He approached the man and said in his infant Arabic "Thank you friend." He asked the man's name and where he lived and whether he had any family. The man's name was Nadeem Baladi. He was from the village called Qaryah or something. Father couldn't remember exactly. He had a wife and small son. Father told him to go in peace, and Nadeem Baladi ran into the desert and out of sight."

"So Father felt that he had paid his debt of honour to pay to this man, but he couldn't get him out of his mind. After the war he wanted look him up to see if he was still alive, and if not, compensate his family in some way. It really wasn't possible while he was still stationed there, and afterward he always meant to go back, but he never did.

"Baladi isn't that common a name; in fact it means someone from the country." I said. And Qaryah simply means village. If he was giving correct information, we ought to be able to find him or his descendents."

"Country Man from the Village," Kilwillie mused. "It sounds like he wanted to keep his identity under his fez."

"Well that's that," Paul said. "No wonder Father couldn't find him."

It was now late and we soon bade each other good night and went to bed.

9

The next day was all pomp and circumstance. There was the MacDonald piping band and the Glenbogle piping band and the Glenbogle primary school choir. There were awards for the previous days contests and a repeat performance by the winner of the Highland Fling. MacDonald proctor Sheila MacDonald presided over these events.

Unbeknownst to me, she and other MacDonald elders, including Donald and Meghan, in consultation with Paul, had been in conference earlier in the morning about my sudden appearance. It seems that in tradition, if not in law, I was my father's rightful heir to the estate. They were concerned that Paul's investiture follow all the ritual requirements perfectly, in order that there not be any problems in the future.

Sheila and the other elders joined us for lunch that day and explained to me that in order to do things properly, I should be part of the ceremony. Donald, as Hector's closest male relative of his generation, was to be the one to place the MacDonald medallion around Paul's neck, hand him the sacred sword, and the ancient key (that opened nothing.) Now they were proposing that he hand the items to me and I hand them to Paul. That would satisfy the ritual requirement that I relinquish my rights to the title before Paul could be acknowledged as heir.

I said that I would be honoured and Paul said that he would be honoured and the only remaining matter to determine was what I was going to wear. I had already arranged to borrow a suit from Paul, as I had not brought one, and we were almost the same size. The trousers were a tad too long but they would do. I could add a MacDonald tartan vest to the suit or I could see how one of his kilts fit. Would I mind?

Well, I had been dressed in all sorts of native costumes in the course of my travels, so no, I wouldn't mind a bit, as long as they assured me that, according to their standards, I looked okay. So without even waiting for dessert, Paul and I bounded up the stairs to his room and began the trying on of various things.

Lexie joined us shortly afterward and stood outside the door waiting for me to emerge for her inspection. It reminded me of shopping with Mama for school clothes, with her outside the dressing room, calling "Are you done yet? Let me see. Oh that looks..." We finally decided that one of Paul's kilts would fit me perfectly if we pinned it at the waist. The matching jacket was fine the way it was, and the tartan would match the bonnet they had in mind for me. All I needed were Paul's hose and my own shoes to complete the ensemble.

"There," Lexie said as she adjusted the jacket shoulders and flicked some lint of the lapel. You look just like a MacDonald." I felt like one too.

When it was time for the ceremony itself, Donald, Paul, and I mounted our horses and processed to the makeshift stage, led by Duncan carrying a flag and Golly on the bagpipes. Meghan and her daughters and their families and Kilwillie were all in the front row beaming at us. We dismounted our horses and climbed the steps to the stage and sat down on the chairs provided for us. Sheila was again at the podium and made a short speech. Next it was our turn.

The three of us stood up with Paul and Donald facing each other and me in the middle. Donald began in his booming voice, "On behalf of my late brother, Hector MacDonald, I, Donald Ulysses MacDonald, come before you to bestow the title of laird on my nephew, Paul Bowman MacDonald, Son of Hector Naismith MacDonald, son of Hamish Angus MacDonald, son of Albert Alastair MacDonald..." I swear he went back 14 generations. "With the power vested in me and with the aid and the assent of Hector's eldest son, James Gilbert MacDonald.." (I was about to protest. I had agreed to the kilt, but nobody told me about the name change, but I thought better of it.) ... "I present you with the sacred MacDonald sword."

This was Paul's cue to kneel in front of Donald. Donald touched each of Paul's shoulders lightly with the sword. "Rise now, Paul Bowman MacDonald, rightful laird of Glenbogle. Paul rose and Donald handed the sword to me and I handed it to Paul. Paul put it in its sheath. 

"And now I proffer you the ancient medallion of the MacDonald clan, handed down to us through the centuries by the Ulster MacDonalds of yore. Wear it proudly today, but forever more keep it in a temperature and humidity controlled vault so that you may pass it on to your own heir." This produced a few chuckles from the audience. Donald handed the medallion to me and I slipped it over Paul's head.

"And finally I present you with the key to the original Fort Glenbogle, that stood on the very spot of the current Glenbogle House. I trust you will use this key wisely." He handed me the key; I handed it to Paul; he looked it over and placed it in his pocket.

Sheila again spoke into the mike and announced, "I present to you, the 15th laird of Glenbogle, Paul Bowman MacDonald."

Paul went to the podium and made a short speech in which he recalled the memory of our father, thanked everyone on stage and nearly everyone in the first two rows of the audience, and promised to do his best to bring honour to the title of laird and the MacDonald family. The audience roared with approval, the bagpipes started up again, and after shaking hands with everyone on stage, Paul descended into the audience for more handshakes, hugs, and pats on the back. The kiddy rides were opened again and ice cream bars and biscuits were distributed liberally.

It was a fine show and I was proud to be part of it. I looked around at the crowd, the castle, the vast estate, and the magnificent view, and indulged for a moment the fantasy of my being the one to possess all of this and wield the tremendous prestige if not power of office. I wouldn't want it for a moment. Once again, I thanked Mama for making the choices that she did, that allowed me to live a very different life of my own choosing.

10

Later that evening, after all the fuss was over, the guests had gone home, and a hired crew was cleaning up outside, the family was sprawled out in the parlour, reflecting on the events of the day. Paul and Lexie were cuddled up together on a sofa asking me about my future plans. "You can stay here as long as you like," Lexie said. If you need a quiet place to do some of your writing, you can take one of the crofts if you like."

"Why, thank you," I said. "I might just do that sometime."

"And you are especially welcome for Christmas and the New Year," said Meghan. "That's always a big family occasion and you owe it to yourself to experience at least one Scottish Hogmanay in your life." 

"Thank you, but I always spend Christmas with my family - I mean my other family. It's especially important for us to keep up the tradition this year and I expect we will do it with André."

"Perhaps another time", she said.

"So, I think I'll stay on another few days. I need to go back to Paris to pick up some of my things and I think my next stop may be Kenya. It seems my mother had an estranged brother who at least _was _a coffee planter out there. I discovered that going through my mother's old papers. I found a letter he sent to her in which he made some unrepeatable remarks about Arché and Lisette's origins and race. She must have written back to him because there was another letter in which he claimed it was all a joke and she never could take a joke."

"How unforgivable," Donald remarked.

"Yes," Paul agreed. "He sounds even more rascally an uncle than you, Donald."

"You take that back," Donald retorted, "or I'll take back all those nice toys I gave you today."

"Too late now," Paul said. "I have them all locked up in a temperature and humidity controlled vault. But I take it back. I have to behave like a proper laird now, fair to all my subjects."

"It's not too late Jamie," you can still claim the title if you want," Donald said slyly, shielding his mouth with his hand.

"No thanks," I said. "It's Paul's headache now."

"Jamie," Paul said with a sudden thought. "I'd like you to have something of Father's as a keepsake. Something that would mean something to you. Like the bonnet you wore today was originally his, or his gold cufflinks with the MacDonald seal."

"Or a maybe a book of his favourite poetry," Meghan suggested.

"Or his comic book collection," Zannah giggled.

"That would be nice." I said. "I would like that. I'll have to think about it."

Suddenly Lexie bolted upright from Paul's arms. "Jamie, I forgot all about it; a letter came for you the other day." She jumped up to fetch it.

"Who would be writing to me here?" I wondered. "Only André has the address, but he would ring if it were anything urgent."

Lexie handed me the letter. "It's postmarked from Egypt," she announced.

"Maybe it's from Nadeem Baladi from Qaryah," Golly joked.

"Not bloomin' likely," I thought as I examined the envelope. It was clearly feminine stationary and handwriting. It was sent to my Paris address and forwarded to me here. Was I imagining it or did it have the faint smell of rosewater on it? The return address was one in Cairo, but there was no name associated with it. My heart flipped with the thought of whom it might be from.

"Don't stand on ceremony, go ahead and open it," Meghan said." You don't have to read it aloud."

I opened the letter. It was written in French and read:

Dear Jamie,

I'm writing to express my deepest sympathy upon learning of the death of your mother. I was saddened to read about it in an article in Le Monde, which also detailed her remarkable life. I hope that the your loving memories will soon eclipse the sorrow you must feel. Please extend my sympathies to your brother and sister as well.

Much has happened to me since we last saw each other. You may have heard that I went to Saudi Arabia to be married. The marriage was a disaster. I was very lonely there, where women's lives are so constricted. Still, I probably would have stayed in the marriage if my husband had not divorced me for being infertile.

Although I am disappointed about not being able to have children - perhaps I will do as your mother did and adopt one day - I am glad to be back home in Egypt and free once more. I went to University and received a degree in French literature. I am now teaching secondary school French.

I have been following your career and have read many of your articles. What an interesting life you seem to live. I hope that your work will bring you solace in your grief.

If you are ever in Egypt again, I would be honoured to see you.

With Regards,

Bashira.

"It's from an old friend," I said. "Condolences." There was a momentary silence in the room.

11

"I know what I might like of Father's if no one else is to attached to them," I said, slipping the letter back in its envelope and into my inside jacket pocket. "How about those watercolours that are in the laird's room. The ones of the castle and the loch."

"The ones by MLG," Lexie murmured.

"Mona Lisa Gilbert," Paul said. "Did your mother paint those?"

"He kept them there all these years," Meghan said with a little distaste. "Yes, you may have them. Nobody here wants them."

"Thank you," I said and quickly, changed the subject again. "I Googled the name Baladi last night and there are some Egyptians by that name, although there was no Nadeem Baladi. I also looked for Qaryah, and although I found no village by that name, there was one called Qaryat. Do you think that could be it?"

"Maybe," Paul said. It would be amazing if Father had remembered the name correctly by the time he was telling the story to us. The place could have been called Kar... anything for all we know."

"Well I'll look into it. If a Nadeem Baladi ever existed under that name, I ought to be able to find him or his descendents. Is there anything I ought to give him?"

"Hm, I don't know," Paul said. "I'll have to think about it."

"How but a picture of us with Father," Cath suggested. " Jamie could take one of Baladi's family if they don't have one to give. It would be a reminder to both families of the generations of people who were granted life on both sides because of the kindness and bravery of two men."

"Good one, Cath," Paul said.

"It's very thoughtful of you to want to do this for your father," Meghan said.

"Well, I have some people to see in Cairo anyway," I shrugged. "Each trip is an excuse to do the other."

"People, as in the letter you just received?" Lexie asked perceptively.

"Yes I smiled," patting my breast pocket and wondering where the road would take me next. "People like that that."

The End


End file.
